


A Light in Dark Places

by starlightwalking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Miscommunication, Romance, Tauriel is important but not until later chapters, Tragedy, basically Thranduil's backstory, botfa canon, hella angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Thranduil had many lights in his life, but now, he was alone in the dark. Thranduil’s story, from its start to the Battle of the Five Armies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calien

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to myrkvidrs on tumblr for (indirectly) helping me flesh out my headcanons before I wrote this, and to realelvish.net for helping with OC names.  
> "Calien" means "Of the Light".
> 
>  
> 
> "May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."  
> —Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring

 

The first time Thranduil saw her was in moonlight. She was tall and beautiful, her face turned up to the sky. They were above the leaves, in the highest towers of Oropher's halls, and the moon bathed the small room with light.

He froze in place, staring at her, not wanting to look away. She was Silvan, wearing the garb of a warrior, though her scabbard hung empty at her side. Thranduil did not know what she was doing up here, but he did not want her to leave.

What ought he to do? he wondered in panic. One wrong move and she could vanish, for all he knew. Perhaps she was not real: her beauty was ethereal and and almost otherworldly. Perhaps if he blinked he would lose her.

But he could not just stand there, not forever. Soon she would turn and notice him. He ought to introduce himself first.

Thranduil took one shaky, hesitant step forward. She turned and gasped in surprise, and he felt like doing the same, only in awe. Her eyes were pale green, widened and reflecting the moonlight back at him.

"Hello, fair maiden," he said, trying not to stammer. "I am Thranduil Oropherion. And what is your name?"

She was called Calien, so she said, and this was not the last he saw of her.

Calien was a warrior, a member of the forest guard. She protected Oropher's boundaries and his castle, under the command of the Captain of the Guard. Thranduil often now watched the Guard set out, just to get a glimpse of her during work.

Calien liked him, and he, her. They met together after dusk in the same room they had first encountered each other, speaking of their lives and their aspirations and of all other things. Thranduil told his father King Oropher all about her, and he only laughed.

"I did not think you would become so alike unto our Silvan friends that you would wed one," Oropher said with a smile.

Thranduil blushed. "No one said anything about weddings!" he exclaimed. "Calien and I are not yet that close,  _ada_."

"But she is fond of you, and you of her," Oropher said with a smile. "Elves love not often. I wish you the best with your Silvan maid."

Thranduil shook his head, very embarrassed.

"You are of age, Thranduil, my son," his father said, "and so is she, a fine young warrior of the guard. Give it a year or two and you youngsters will be wed. Take my word for it. It is how your mother and I were."

Thranduil sighed at the thought of his mother. He remembered her only faintly. She had been killed on the journey to the Greenwood, when he was only twenty and not yet grown. That was seventy years ago. His father grieved for years, but he was composed the few times he spoke of her now. Still, a haunted melancholy hid behind his eyes.

Oropher's prediction was not untrue. Calien and Thranduil's relationship soon grew closer and deeper, until at last the day of their marriage arrived.

They wed under sunlight, on a summer's midday. It was up in the high towers, where the light shone down clearly above the trees, and those of keen eyesight could gaze for miles around over the green summer leaves.

Calien and Thranduil lived for many years in peaceful harmony. She continued her work in the Guard, and he often began to travel with her as part of the forest warriors. He grew proficient and strong in the art of sword wielding, though Calien always favored the bow.

Oropher moved his halls northward eventually; and then again, and again. Each time Thranduil followed him faithfully, speaking and encouraging the Silvan elves who were reluctant to leave their home to follow their Sinda king. He grew popular among the kin of his wife, and Oropher praised him and loved him all the more for strengthening the royal family's bond with its people.

Then came war. The Last Alliance, it was called, and Oropher grimly marched his people south to fight against Mordor. Thranduil was reluctant to go, but obeyed his father's command and fought alongside him.

Oropher and much of the Silvan army were slain in the Battle of Dagorlad, and the sorrow and rage of the remaining elves was terrible to behold. Still full of grief, Thranduil kept going.

Grimly, and with a heavy heart, Thranduil took leadership of his people. He led them onward, to what he believed was certain death. He did not want to go any further. He had no more love for the Noldorin elves, not that he had any in the first place.

"Gil-galad," he told the High King wearily, "we cannot go any further. We are exhausted. We have lost a third of our forces."

The Noldo frowned, worry and stress creasing his brow. "Thranduil, we have suffered losses, too. We cannot turn back, not now. The Last Alliance needs the elves of the Greenwood, now more than ever, or all is lost."

"All will be lost regardless," Thranduil said bitterly. "They will slaughter us. We march to the death of all who walk here, elves and men both."

Gil-galad put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "I know the death of your father has been hard on you, but you must not despair. We do not fight against Morgoth the Accursed, but against Sauron. We need only hope and a strong arm to prevail. And we need your forces."

Thranduil looked down. "We will march with you to the Black Gate, and fight alongside your forces. But if we prevail in this dark hour, do not ever again look to the elves of Eryn Galen for aid in dark times. Too much of our blood has been split. We will not fight for any but ourselves any longer."

Against all odds, the Last Alliance prevailed. Sauron was defeated, but at a heavy cost. Thranduil lost another third of his army, his people, his friends; the High King Gil-galad was also slain.

Thranduil led the broken, scarred remains of his people back to the Greenwood and vowed to hold true to his promise. He strengthened the Guard, appointing his wife Calien as its Captain since the previous one had fallen in the Battle of Dagorlad.

He carried now the memory of darkness within him. Oropher had fallen, and Thranduil now was King of the Woodland Realm, but he took no joy in this new title.

He had Calien to comfort him, and for this he was grateful. For many long years the Woodland Realm was at peace, and Thranduil remained so as well. He and Calien often returned to the highest towers in the new palace, to see the light of the skies clearly and drink it in. He captured this light once, in several pristine jewels, and gave them to her as a gift. Delighted, she displayed them for all to see, working them into her everyday wear. Thranduil did regret he had not thought ahead to make them into a necklace or a bracelet for her to wear more easily.

After some time, something woke inside each of them and they began to yearn for a child. Calien and Thranduil spent the better part of a year trying for an heir, and at last they were successful. One year later, their son was born.

He was small, very small, Thranduil thought worriedly, but Calien and the midwives comforted him, assuring the child was a healthy size and weight. Legolas, they named him,  _green leaves_. He became the joy of Thranduil's life alongside his wife, a light in this dark world. But his light was not unquenchable, and darkness gathered in the north: war was coming...


	2. Thiristel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thiristel - alteration of Thirristiel; "Claw Face"

 

Legolas was only ten years old when Thranduil received news of a threat to his kingdom, an army of orcs amassing near the abandoned fortress of Gundabad. This news alone did not worry him—orcs regrouped themselves every now and again; he could strengthen the Guard and easily crush them if they dared attack the forest. No, leaderless orc bands were not worrisome, but according to his scouts these orcs had a captain.

A dragon, fearsome and huge, had appeared in the north. Thiristel, the scout called it, for it had a scar upon its face, and by its voice it seemed female. This greatly troubled Thranduil. He had heard no tell of female dragons before, though clearly they were in existence as dragons were known to reproduce.

Calien counseled him to call upon other nations for assistance and take down the dragon. Thranduil was hesitant to obey her words. He remembered the Last Alliance. He remembered his father. He did not want to risk the lives of his people. He wanted to keep them safe. But Thiristel was undoubtedly a threat, and the reports from the north grew more and more troubling.

At last, Thiristel and her forces reached and burned part of the northern forest. Enraged at the deaths of his people who had lived there, Thranduil finally agreed to lead his people into battle, though he would not dare to ask for the allegiance of other realms. Calien pressured again to call for aid, but Thranduil refused. He was convinced the elves of the Greenwood could handle Thiristel and her orcs by themselves.

The woodelves marched on Gundabad. Thranduil spent the time strategizing with Calien, who was the Captain of the Guard as well as his wife, and his other counsellors. He missed his son, who had of course remained in the forest with his nannies, but he was comforted by Calien's presence.

At last the day came when battle was nigh. Thranduil dreaded to see battle again, for he was loathe to watch his people die, but he knew a frontal attack would be the only way to crush Thiristel's forces before she brought utter ruin to his forest and his people.

The woodelves, at his command, leapt into battle. They gained many small victories that day against the orcs of Gundabad and their fearsome wargs, but Thranduil was troubled. Thiristel was nowhere to be seen.

They fought five days before any sign of the dragon came, and bloody days those were. Many of Thranduil's people were slain, and the resources of the orc fortress seemed to be inexhaustible, but it seemed to him they were winning. The bodies of elves were numbered in the hundreds, but the bodies of orcs were innumerable.

"Where is the she-dragon?" he demanded to himself. "Where is their leader?"

At those very words, a hush fell upon the battle. Even the orcs lowered their weapons, looking up in awe at the source of the great shadow blanketing the clearing.

"Thiristel," Thranduil whispered. "She has come."

A great roar echoed through the mountains and valleys, making his ears ring and his eyes squint. A deep discomfort settled in his bosom, and he could feel the scaly evil soar overhead.

Thranduil frowned resolutely, hefting his two great swords. "Archers!" he bellowed, breaking the foreboding silence on the battlefield. "Attack the dragon! Fire at will!"

The elves pulled back their bows and fired. The battle was renewed. Dread filled the hearts of the Silvan elves, and they faltered, many slain by the scimitars of their enemies' renewed vigor.

The arrows that did manage to hit the she-beast simply bounced off her scaly hide. She landed on the top of a mountain, letting out another horrible screech, and Thranduil beheld his new enemy for the first time.

She was a rough brown in the color of her scales, and her great golden eyes roved across the battlefield, taking in the scene. Across her face was a horrible, deep scar that marred her terrible glory. The scouts had been right to name her "Claw Face", for that was for that was her most prominent and disfiguring feature.

Thranduil advanced toward her, intent on slaying the beast. He wished for a silly, fleeting moment that he could fly, to make it easier to bring down the beast. Alas, his swords and a longbow he carried slung across his back would have to do.

"Calien!" he called out as he neared the battling queen-captain. "I go to slay the dragon! Come with me, and bring your best archers!"

Calien swiftly killed the orc she was battling, and cried out to those archers closest to her. Soon Thranduil led a small group of the finest elvish warriors through the fray and toward Thiristel's wrath.

"Feed the fires of your rage!" the dragon bellowed to her orcs. "Kill the elvish scum!"

Thranduil killed all the orcs in his path as he trudged through the bloodstained battlefield. He was unstoppable in that moment, and no orc could pierce his guard. He kept his iron gaze locked on his eventual target: the dragon atop the mound. He wished, too late, he had a steed with which to carry him faster, and resolved to acquire one should he survive this battle.

Behind him, he heard one of Calien's archers cry out and fall by an orc's blade. Pity moved within him, but he had no time to stop if he wanted to halt further death and destruction.

Atop the mountain, Thiristel filled her belly with fire. "Shield!" Thranduil called out to his people. "Fire!"

He rolled under a nearby rock, pulling his queen with him. The archers scrambled to join them. Thiristel released her flame, bathing the battlefield in heat. When the air cleared, Thranduil beheld a terrible sight: elves and orcs both burning, the dead charred and the wounded blazing.

He darted out from under the rock, leading the others with him. They moved quickly, darting across the remains of the scorched area.

Thiristel had noticed them now. "I see you, elflings," she growled. "Despair, for I am unkillable, a dragon-general of the North!"

"I may kill you if I am swift," Thranduil shouted. "Fear me, Thiristel Claw Face, for I am Thranduil the Elvenking!"

The dragon laughed, a hollow, evil sound. "Petty elking you may be, but I am a dragon and possess great fire!"

"Shield!" Thranduil commanded again, swinging his cloak over Calien and himself, letting its power protect him as Thiristel's flames bathed the clearing once more. The cloak burned away, but left the king and queen unscathed.

They were very close now. Of the twelve archers who had come with Calien, only five remained. The rest had perished by orc-blade or dragonfire.

"Fire your greatest arrows!" he called out to them. "If you have none, fire in bunches! We must pierce her armor!"

"Claw Face, you named me," Thiristel said mockingly, "but no elf-prince gave me this wound. It was my father, whom I fought and slew for leadership of this orc pack. you cannot slay me, for I am the greatest dragon of this age!"

"Fire!" Thranduil commanded, ignoring her arrogant words. The archers, including Calien, shot arrows at the she-beast, but she batted them away with one sweep of her great wings.

"Fire at will!" he ordered, trying to get closer. "Aim for her eyes!"

Thiristel laughed again. "You cannot pierce my hide, but I can easily slay your pitiful servants!" She reached down with one giant claw and swiped up two of the elven archers, dropping them from the height of the mountain.

Thranduil turned away, unable to watch their untimely demise. But he steeled his heart and looked back. Now was not the time for grief, but the time for rage.

"We must slay her now!" he growled to Calien and the three remaining archers. "Get close. Get on top of her if you must. She must die  _now_!"

Calien nodded and beckoned to one of the archers. To the other two, she said, "Follow the king." She nodded to her husband and said, "I'll distract her. You go in for the kill."

"Be careful," he warned her, his voice tender.

"I will be," she said with a smile. "I love you. Fight well, Thranduil."

"Fight well, Calien," he murmured as she turned and raced right toward the dragon.

Thranduil shed the tattered remains of his cloak and readied his longbow, pulling four arrows out of his quiver. He raced along the mountainside while Calien distracted Thiristel.

"Elfqueen, I see you," Thiristel drawled. "You think you will conquer the dragon? I will conquer your armies!"

Calien laughed merrily, a beacon of light in the darkness. "You cannot, foul beast. You are not strong enough, weakling. I have fought and slain many dragons in my time, and you are nothing compared to them."

"Liar," Thiristel hissed, though Thranduil could tell this had gotten under her scales. He was above her now, the two archers behind him. He motioned for them to come closer.

"Get above her," he whispered. "Shoot into her head, repeatedly."

They nodded and scampered away. Grimly, Thranduil drew his bow and shot the four arrows right at the dragon's eye.

One of them hit its mark, and Thiristel roared in anger, blinking before the other three could pierce her vulnerable eye any further. She whirled her head around and drew herself up further, spreading her wings and bellowing at him in rage.

"You cannot defeat me!" she screamed, filling her belly with fire. The force of the wind stirred up by her wings blew Thranduil backwards, and he was left defenseless and vulnerable. For one terrified moment, he was convinced he was about to die.

Then Calien shouted out, her voice unnaturally loud and full of rage, " _You will not harm him!_ "

She drew her bow and fired at Thiristel repeatedly, but each arrow only broke as it hit her thick hide. Thiristel snarled, turning back from Thranduil.

"I will deal with your king later, Elfqueen," she growled, "but for now I will put an end to  _you_!"

Calien drew herself up, her eyes flashing in rage, and put her largest arrow to her bow. "Then I will die valiantly, felling my foes, as I have lived!"

The last time Thranduil saw her was in firelight.

Thiristel released her flame, and Thranduil watched, horrified and helpless, as Calien loosed her arrow and then fell, burning, to the ground. The arrow spun, surviving the inferno, before bouncing harmlessly off Thiristel's wings.

Thranduil screamed.

It was a scream of sorrow, of loss, and of anger unmanageable. In a blind rage, he leapt to his feet and across the gap between the ledge upon which he stood and Thiristel's head.

He spoke no words, his mind a blur of fierce and burning hate, and he paid no mind to what the winding snake Thiristel spoke, focusing only on one thing: destroying the she-beast which had killed his wife. He drew his larger sword, raising it above his head and preparing to drive it into the dragon's own.

With all his might he pushed the sword downward, into the dragon's skull. Thiristel screamed. Thranduil leaned on his blade, gritting his teeth, until the hilt was completely buried in the dragon's thick-scaled head.

Thiristel's scream continued, but she had no fire left to be expelled with it. Her body began to crumple, and Thranduil realized it was time for him to leave. Just as her neck began to droop, her head ready to crash to the ground, he leaped from her great head, leaving his weapon embedded in the dragon's skull.

He clutched the edge of the ledge, barely hanging on. Suddenly, a hand gripped his, pulling him up: one of the archers.

"Is—is the dragon dead?" Thranduil asked hoarsely as soon as he caught his breath.

"She is destroyed," the archer confirmed. "But, sire—the queen..."

Calien. Calien was dead. Tears fell unbidden from Thranduil's eyes, hot and sticky. He began to cry weakly, like a newborn child, the pain of her loss ripping through his soul. First his mother, then his father, now his beloved wife...elves were not supposed to die. He could feel wounds creeping upon him: wounds not physical, but scars upon his soul.

"Calien," Thranduil sobbed brokenly; " _Calien_!"

"She is burned," the archer said quietly. "There is nothing left to bury, sire...I am sorry." He swallowed and murmured, "She was a great Captain."

"Calien," Thranduil whispered, closing his eyes.

The archer bowed his head. "My king, the battle is won. The orcs have fled, the dragon is dead. What do you command? Your people need your guidance. We need your leadership."

_Calien,_  Thranduil thought again.

But he must go on. He must endure. He must lead. The archer was right, he had to go on. Thranduil stood. "Yes," he mumbled. "Yes. I will lead you. I will."

"What—what are your orders, King Thranduil?" the archer asked.

"What is your name?" Thranduil asked, looking at him.

"Feren," he said hesitantly.

"Feren," Thranduil repeated. He blinked, then wiped away the tears from his eyes. "You fought well today, Feren. Since...since the position of Captain of the Guard is now vacant, I appoint you to Captainship."

The Silvan elf's face was the picture of surprise. "Th-thank you, your Majesty!" Feren exclaimed, bowing quickly.

"Gather the remainder of our troops," Thranduil told him, his voice still somewhat shaky. "I will return to the commander's tent. Send the chief healer to me."

"Yes, sire," Feren said, nodding and turning away.

Thranduil stood for awhile, looking at the blackened spot of ash where his wife had once stood. "Calien," he whispered one last time.

He never said her name again.


	3. Tauriel

Thranduil returned to Mirkwood and led his people as he had always done, but now his heart was changed. His soul had been wounded, leaving scars that grew visible when he was most agitated. He grew closed, cut off from his people, no longer wandering among them as a friend, but became a distant, untouchable king.

But in this dark life without Calien, there was one light to soothe Thranduil's pain: his son, Legolas. His little leaf was a young elfling, hardly ten when his mother had died, and he had no recollection of her when he was older.

Legolas grew only in happiness, forgetting he even had a mother, loving his father with all his heart. Thranduil spoiled his son, but Legolas grew to be strong, the jewel of his father's kingdom, but wise nonetheless.

Several thousand years passed. Legolas grew to be tall and lithe, an excellent fighter, favoring the bow as his mother had. He did not marry, to Thranduil's faint surprise, but instead devoted his time to the forest and his father.

At about this time, rogue bands of orcs began to trouble the outlying reaches of Thranduil's kingdom. He sent a section of the Guard, under Feren's lead, to deal with them. Feren returned with a slightly smaller force a few weeks later. He was wounded. The healers said he would heal quickly, but that he ought to take a rest from fighting for a little while.

Feren reported that the orcs had been flushed out of their hiding spots. Thranduil knew they would soon regroup and must be destroyed quickly, before any more death could happen. He resolved to lead the Guard himself while Feren recovered.

He brought Legolas along with him, as well as a good portion of the remaining forest Guard. Thranduil led the hunting party through the forest, walking quietly as only elves can.

They came upon the orcs as the foul beasts attacked a village in the western border of the forest. Easily they slayed them all, until they were each battle weary but victorious. Thranduil lost none of his fighters, and would have returned triumphant to his halls without further incident had not the village been burning.

The Guard had come just a few minutes too late for the village. Most of its inhabitants had been slain, and Thranduil's heart was once again full of grief. He desired above all to keep his people safe from the outside dangers, to protect them from harm...and once again he had failed.

"Search for survivors," he ordered the Guard and his son. "If there are any, we will take them back to my halls."

"Yes, sire," one of the Silvan elves said, saluting him. Legolas nodded and went along to aid them.

Thranduil strode through the ruin, looking at the dead bodies of the villagers. He began to pick each body up, humming a comforting song to himself, and dragged them over to where a few of the Guard were digging graves.

"Father," Legolas said quietly behind him as he worked. "We have found no survivors. We are helping to bury the dead. Should I call off the search?"

Thranduil paused and turned to face his son. "Have you searched thoroughly?"

"Yes, father," Legolas confirmed. He looked over the dead with pity. "I wish we had come in time to save them."

Thranduil nodded. "We must strengthen the outlying Guard, so that this does not happen again. Call off the search. Bury the dead, and then we must leave."

Legolas nodded, then turned to shout commands to the Guard. Thranduil left to collect another body to buried. He had just picked one up when he heard the soft cry of a child. He dropped his load and looked around for the source of the noise.

"Who is there?" he called softly. "Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you."

Out of the shadows crept a young Silvan elf, her hair an unusual shock of red. Her wide green eyes looked up at him in fear.

"Wh-who are you?" she asked quietly, her voice small. She hugged herself tightly, looking up at him and deliberately not at the massacre around her.

"I am King Thranduil," he told her gently, kneeling down until their eyes were at an equal height. "Who are you?"

"Tauriel," she answered, looking up at him with trust in her eyes. "My parents are dead."

"I know," he said, his voice gravelly. "We killed the orcs that slew them."

Tauriel looked down. "Oh," she said quietly. "Father told me to hide...so I did...but then there was screaming...I was scared...then I was angry. But I listened to Father."

"You did the right thing, Tauriel," Thranduil said gently. "Come with me, now."

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, taking a step back in fear.

Thranduil reached out to take the little elfling's hand. "We are going to the halls of the king. I will take you there, to live a new life."

Tauriel looked around. "I miss Mother and Father," she whispered, a tear falling down her cheek. "I wanted to kill the orcs that killed them."

"Maybe someday you can become part of the Guard who slew your parent's murderers," Thranduil told her. "And you can kill other orcs, so this does not happen to anyone else."

Her little face grew fiercely determined. "Yes," she said firmly. "I will do that. When I am older."

"Come with me, Tauriel," Thranduil said. "We must be going now."

When they got to where the rest of the Guard was cleaning up the massacre, Thranduil called Legolas aside.

"You found a survivor!" he exclaimed in surprise, glancing down at Tauriel.

"Yes," he agreed. "I am taking Tauriel back to the palace now."

"Now?" Legolas asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Thranduil said, picking her up and putting her on his steed, a majestic elk, in front of her. "She cannot linger here. Finish what you are doing and return as soon as you can."

"Yes, Father," Legolas said dutifully, casting one last curious glance at the little elf girl.

Thranduil and Tauriel set off for home, riding hard. Tauriel clutched the elk's neck fur tightly, her eyes wide. Thranduil kept one arm wrapped protectively around her, one arm guiding the elk through the forest.

They arrived in the palace late in the night, and Thranduil was greeted by an anxious and newly recovered Feren.

"Where are the others?" Feren asked. "And who is this child?"

"I'm Tauriel," the little elf introduced herself.

"I left them behind, to clean up the dead," Thranduil informed the Captain of the Guard, dismounting and taking Tauriel off with him. "Legolas will lead them back when they are done."

Feren nodded. He looked down at Tauriel and smiled. "How did his Majesty find you, Tauriel?"

"The orcs killed my parents," Tauriel said sadly. "But the king brought me back here to live now. He says I can be part of the Guard when I'm older!"

"If you want to," Feren said with a chuckle, taking her hand. He glanced up at Thranduil. "Would you like me to get her situated? I know a some healers who could take her in for the time being."

"Yes, thank you," Thranduil agreed.

Tauriel took Feren's hand and he led her away to her new life in the halls of the king. Thranduil led his elk to the stables of the palace and then left to rest until Legolas's return. He was tired.


	4. Erebor

Years passed. Tauriel grew tall and strong, swift and strong of arm. She joined the Guard when she came of age, as she had vowed to do, and Thranduil watched her progress from a distance. Feren praised her skill, and she rose in the ranks of the Guard swiftly. Legolas took a shine to the young girl, teaching and guiding her. Tauriel also did not marry, and Thranduil half wondered if she and Legolas could be suited for each other.

Thranduil received word that the dwarves of Durin's folk had returned to Erebor. He had little love for dwarves, but since they were his neighbors, he resolved to pay them a welcoming visit.

King Thrór welcomed him into Erebor's halls, and Thranduil was duly impressed by the great stonework that had been done there already. He greeted Thrór warmly, as a friend, wanting no cause of strife between their two kingdoms. Thrór in his turn was kind to his guest, and after some consideration, Thranduil decided to commission a necklace from the dwarves, made of Calien's white starlight-jewels, in her memory.

Thrór agreed, and set his craftsmen to the task. Thranduil's stay in Erebor was a long one, and the two kings treated with together often, working out not an alliance, but an agreement of friendship between the kingdoms of Erebor and the Woodland Realm.

At the end of his stay, Thranduil was shocked to see the most miraculous jewel he had ever laid eyes upon, newly embedded onto Thrór's throne. He had heard of this gem: it was the dwarves' greatest treasure, the heart of the mountain. The Arkenstone.

The sight of this jewel opened his eyes to something that deeply troubled him. Thranduil had not noticed before, but Thrór had grown obsessed with his hoard of treasure. When he was not speaking with his people or treating with Thranduil, he was counting his gold pieces or polishing the king's jewel.

Thranduil grew worried. He knew what this was, he had heard tell from his father Oropher of the times before, when dragons were common, how certain elves had grown overfond of their worldly possessions and unwittingly summoned the winged fire-beasts in their greed, a greed that destroyed kingdoms and families.

He felt he must warn Thrór of this dragonsickness that had begun to creep upon him. Hesitantly, he did so during their next conference, warning him of the dangers his greed might summon. Thrór's face grew stony, and he ended the conversation shortly, his knuckles clenched so tightly they were white.

Thranduil left uneasily, planning to take his leave shortly. He only desired to take the necklace he had commissioned with him. When he requested it be delivered to him before he left the next morning, Thrór refused, turning him aside. Full of repressed wrath, Thranduil left Erebor immediately, swearing in his heart to never deal with dwarves again. Thrór's people now had Calien's jewels, his last memory of his fallen wife, and he was furious.

Thranduil told Legolas very little of what happened with Thrór, even though his son curiously questioned his sudden and unexpected return to the forest. He did not want to have to speak to his son of Calien. He was sure Legolas knew of how his mother had died from one of his guardians, but Thranduil did not speak of it. The pain for him was still too great.

Years passed, and at first Thranduil's prediction seemed to be false. Erebor prospered, as did its neighbors of Esgaroth and Dale. The Woodland Realm continued to trade with the other kingdoms of the east, but Thranduil did not return to Erebor personally.

Then his prediction came true, as sudden as a dragon's fire. Smaug the Magnificent descended upon Erebor and Dale, driving the inhabitants out and burning the city of Men to the ground. Thranduil, worried, mustered an army to march to the Lonely Mountain. If he needed to, he would attack the mountain and slay another dragon, but if Smaug was not an immediate threat, he would return to his kingdom without shedding a drop of elvish blood.

By the time the woodelves arrived, it was too late for the dwarves of Erebor. Many of them had died, and the remaining dwarves had been led away from the firestorm by their king, Thrór.

Thranduil saw the dwarf company and halted his army. He looked down upon them. There were hundreds and hundreds of dwarves, with clothes and even some supplies. It was a tragedy to lose their kingdom, of course, but Thranduil counted them lucky: they were  _alive_. There was no aid Thranduil could give them. And he would not risk the lives of his people against an enemy which had done them no harm. He had suffered enough from dragonfire.

He watched them march for a while. One young dwarf, whom he recognized as royalty of some sort, a descendant of Thrór, looked up at him, glaring with icy blue eyes. Thranduil stared at him, then turned aside. It was time to lead his people home.

Not long after Erebor's fall, Captain Feren approached Thranduil in his meeting room in the palace, looking rather embarrassed.

"Greetings, Feren," he said, pouring his guest some wine. "What brings you here?'

Feren took the wine glass and sipped gratefully. "Sire, I have served you long and well as the Captain of the Guard," he began, "but I do not wish to lead them any longer."

Thranduil raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Why?" he asked.

"I have fought for three thousand years," Feren said. "I still wish to serve you, your Majesty, but I have grown weary of field work."

"Would you accept a position in the palace guard?' Thranduil proposed thoughtfully. "It is primarily calm work. You may find some of the younger guards infuriating, however."

"I would love to, sire," Feren said with a relieved smile.

"Do you have any thoughts on who your successor will be?" he asked. "Perhaps Er—"

"I was thinking Tauriel," Feren interrupted.

"Tauriel?" he said in surprise. "But she is so young! Barely six hundred!"

"She has a fire in her," Feren said. "She is strong, and an excellent leader. She will do well."

Thranduil nodded. "You are right. Tauriel is a good choice. Will you tell her, or shall I?"

"I will, sire," Feren agreed.

And so Tauriel became Captain of the Guard. She was a good choice, and Thranduil grew proud of her achievements. Legolas increasingly began to accompany the Guard, and he became good friends with Tauriel. Thranduil now saw his earlier predictions were right—they were indeed suited for each other, though they had not realized it yet.

But a foreboding stirred within him. He did not think it would be good for history repeat itself, for a member of the royal family to wed the Captain of the Guard. He would have to subtly discourage their union, before things got too serious.

At about this time, the spiders in the forest grew more and more bold, spreading further and further north. A nest was discovered only a few miles west of the palace. Irritated at their persistence, Thranduil ordered Tauriel to take the Guard and wipe it out.

To his surprise, she returned with an angry troop of thirteen dwarves. Thranduil ordered them to be locked up in the dungeons and their leaders summoned to him. He recognized the bold dwarf with the icy blue eyes full of hate: it was Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and heir to the throne under the mountain.

Here Thranduil saw an opportunity. The only reason the heir of Thrór would be traveling this far east, in the direction of the Lonely Mountain, was to reclaim Erebor from the dragon Smaug.

Thranduil wanted no business with dragons, but if by some miracle Thorin's company managed to regain them mountain, and escape the dragonsickness, perhaps he could be dealt with. Thranduil wanted his white jewels back, as a last memory of Calien.

As the guards delivered Thorin to the throne room, Thranduil strode around the dais which held his throne. The dwarf was disgusting, he noted with distaste, with tangled and matted hair, dirty clothes strewn with spider webs, and an ugly scowl.

"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand," he began, drawling elegantly and pacing around the dwarf lord.

"A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon," the elvenking continued. "I myself suspect a more... _prosaic_  motive." Thorin gritted his teeth and turned his head upward and away from Thranduil, visibly irritated.

"Attempted burglary, or something of that ilk," Thranduil surmised. He stepped forward, in front of the dwarf, and leaned down to better see him. He had to restrain himself from wrinkling his nose; Thorin smelled terrible. "You have found a way in."

Thorin looked up and met his eyes for the first time, but said nothing. "You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. The king's jewel. The Arkenstone." He stepped backward as he did so, nearing his throne. Thorin glanced away, then looked back up as Thranduil continued, "It is precious to you beyond measure."

He smirked. "I understand that." Indeed he did: his halls had lacked the great treasure hoards of the elvenkings of old, and he had often felt a desire to gather his own wealth. He was never so greedy as the dwarves, however.

"There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems of pure starlight," Thranduil said, concealing his true longing for the necklace of Calien's star jewels. Thorin must only think this a trivial thing. He needed to keep the upper hand, not to allow the wandering dwarf lord to sense he was desperate. "I offer you my help."

Thorin smiled. "I am listening," he rasped, his voice low and rumbling.

Thranduil held back a smile of his own. He had thought that Thrór's heir would have inherited some of his grandfather's stubbornness. "I will let you go," he offered, "if you but return what is mine."

Thorin turned around. "A favor for a favor," he said.

"You have my word," Thranduil vowed. "One king to another." This would flatter the dwarf; calling him a king though he had no throne.

"I would not trust Thranduil," Thorin said, at first quiet, with then increasing volume, "the great king, to only his word, 'til the end of all days be upon us!"

Thranduil widened his eyes in shock. He was refusing the deal?

Thorin turned around and pointed at him accusingly. "You lack all honor! I have seen how you treat your 'friends'! We came to you once, starving, homeless—seeking your help. But you turned your back! You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!" His voice growing ever angrier and louder, he lapsed into his own dwarvish tongue, calling Thranduil what was doubtless an insult.

Thranduil swooped down from where he stood, his face an inch from the dwarf's. Rage burned within him, anger that Thorin would insult him, despair that he would never get Calien's necklace back, and fury that the dwarf lord supposed he knew of the terrors of dragons in full.

"Do not speak to me of dragonfire!" he hissed. "I know its wrath and ruin! I have faced the great serpents of the north!"

He took a step back, closing his eyes. He had scars from the slaying of Thiristel, but they had healed in time. But there were deeper scars, scars upon his soul, that he now let show visibly upon his face. Thorin's eyes widened and flashed for just a moment in fear.

But the effort of reliving those painful moments was exhausting him. Thranduil stepped backward, allowing his face to return to normal, and regaining his composure.

"I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen," he said. Making an effort to calm the turmoil inside him, he retreated to his throne. "You are just like him."

He motioned with his hand for the guards to take the foul dwarf away, and they immediately began to drag the glaring Thorin away from the throne. The dwarf struggled a little, but made no serious move to escape.

"Stay here if you will, and rot," Thranduil growled. "A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf! I am patient. I can wait."

After Thorin had been dragged out of the throne hall, Thranduil took a deep breath and ran a hand along his face. He did not want to have to wait for Thorin to concede to his terms, but he would if he must. He had waited this long, after all, and even if he did let the dwarves go, they would in all probability not succeed.

Still, this had awakened a new hope inside him, and he began to think again that it might be possible to gaze upon the jewel's of his fallen wife once again.


	5. A Threat

Later that day he wandered his halls, searching for solace. As he did so, he sensed the presence of another elf nearby. It could only be Tauriel.

"I know you're there," he said, turning to face the empty-seeming hallway. "Why do you linger in the shadows?"

The sound of footsteps reached his ears, and Tauriel walked out toward him. "I was coming to report to you," she said, stopping in front of him and nodding her head in greeting.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed not two moons past," Thranduil said, slightly irritated, though not with her. He was still thinking about the confrontation with Thorin.

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my lord," Tauriel said with a note of protest in her voice, "but more spiders keep coming up from the south. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source—"

Thranduil cut her off quickly. "That fortress lies beyond our borders," he reminded her. "Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures, that is your task." He admitted privately to himself that she was right, to an extent: they would be wiped out easier if they had no spawning place. But he would not risk the lives of his people to attack that foul fortress, for all it was his former home. It was a tower of darkness now, inhabited once by Sauron and now again by a dark necromancer. It would be too dangerous.

"And when we drive them off, what then?" Tauriel demanded. "Will they not spread to other lands?"

"Other lands are not my concern," Thranduil said. "The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom, we will endure." She did not understand. She was young, full of passion and curiosity. She wanted to save the world. She fought for ideals, not for her people. She still remembered her promise, he knew, to save everyone she could from falling by the blades of orcs.

Thranduil knew this was unrealistic. He had seen the world, and he knew it could not be saved, let alone by a single elf. He would protect his own, for that was what a king did. He protected his people, not the people of other kingdoms.

Tauriel, though obviously unsatisfied by his answer, nodded and turned to leave. Then something occurred to Thranduil.

"Legolas said you fought well today," he called right before she left the room. She stopped, half turning. "He has grown very fond of you."

Tauriel widened her eyes and opened her mouth, obviously shocked. He held back a smirk. Had she really not noticed the chemistry between them?

"I assure you, my lord," she said, very quickly, "Legolas thinks of me as no more than the Captain of the Guard."

He strode past her, toward a table which held wine. "Perhaps he did once," he said. "Now I am not so sure."

He picked up the wine bottle and poured it into a cup as Tauriel processed this. "I do not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf."

Thranduil sighed internally. She did not judge him very well, he thought, if she thought he looked down upon his Silvan subjects just because he was a Sinda. But no mind to that now. He had to discourage her from even gaining hope. The two of them had a mutual attraction, but he could sense it would only end in grief.

"No, you are right," he said matter-of-factly, "I would not. Still, he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

Tauriel nodded, then turned to leave. This time, he did not stop her.

There was a great feast that night, for which Tauriel was absent. After the feast was over, Thranduil retired to his bed and slept soundly until the next morning when he was woken suddenly by a member of the palace guard.

"Sire!" the guard panted nervously. "The dwarves—they've escaped!"

As soon as he heard the news, Thranduil sent out the Guard, accompanied by Legolas, to track the dwarves down. He waited for their return with the prisoners back in the palace, his emotions a mix of anger and anxiety.

Tauriel and Legolas returned without the dwarves, but with instead an orc prisoner. The Guard had encountered some trouble with Bolg, son of Azog the Defiler, and his pack of orcs who were trying to kill the dwarves. Thranduil interrogated their prisoner while Tauriel and Legolas looked on.

The orc seemed to be mocking Tauriel in particular about a dark-haired dwarf, and she seemed uncharacteristically distraught about his poisoning. He wondered if she had found some strange sort of attraction in him, despite his hideous beard and short stature. If that was true, she had certainly taken his advice to discourage Legolas's advances to heart, though it would only end in ruin for her. He would really have to be direct next time he talked to her, he realized, for her own good. Thranduil cared about the little elf girl he had found in the wreck of her own village, even now as she had grown to be fierce and strong.

He sent Tauriel away when she became too angry at the orc, trusting she would calm herself down. Shortly after, Thranduil too began to feel his blood rise. He cut the interrogation short, killing the orc, much to Legolas's disgust.

"Why did you do that?" Legolas asked, holding the orc's decapitated head with and wrinkling his nose. "You promised to set him free."

Thranduil sighed. "And I did. I freed his wretched head from his miserable shoulders." No other elf in his kingdom could ask him this without fear, only Legolas, his light in this dark realm without Calien in which he dwelled.

"There was more the orc could tell us," Legolas pressed him. Thranduil kicked the orc's twitching body, forcing it to stop moving.

"There was nothing more he could tell me," he snapped. He did not mean to be so harsh, but something the orc had said... _Do you understand now, Elfling? Death is upon you. The flames of war are upon you._  He turned aside, troubled. This was not good news. The orcs were planning it an alliance with Smaug, it seemed, an alliance that would bring this world to fire.

"What did he mean by the flames of war?" Legolas called out.

Thranduil did not begrudge his son curiosity. It was only natural. But he did not wish to frighten him, nor anyone he might tell. He would have to be vague. "It means they intend to unleash a weapon so great it will destroy all before it."

He walked off, mentally making preparations for war. "I want the watch doubled at our borders—all roads, all rivers! Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom, and no one leaves it!" He turned to stare at his son. He had to protect Legolas, and the rest of his people. He could not risk getting involved in the destruction that was to come.

He soon found out from Feren, now captain of the Palace Guard, that both Tauriel and Legolas had disobeyed his orders and had gone out seeking to recapture the dwarves. Thranduil was angry, but mostly he was afraid. He did not want them to be harmed, nor did he want them to give the orcs more reason to hate the Woodland Realm. But was done had been done.

Two days later, the sun rose and a messenger from the easternmost border of Thranduil's realm came breathless, delivering an urgent message for the king.

"Sire," the elf panted as he was admitted into the king's audience, "the dragon Smaug is dead! Shot by a black arrow, by a man of Lake-town!"

Thranduil paused in what he was doing. "Smaug is dead..." he whispered. Everything was different now. Tauriel and Legolas were still gone, he knew, but perhaps they were alive. And if the dwarves had reached Erebor, as he assumed they had if they had driven Smaug all the way to Lake-town, then perhaps they could be bargained with...perhaps he could reclaim Calien's jewels.

He turned to Feren, who was standing in the doorway, and made a split-second decision. "Feren, take a horse and ride to the shores of the Long Lake. Find Legolas, tell him he must return now. Then take back your position of Captain of the Guard and muster an army. We march on the Lonely Mountain at sunset."

"Yes, your Majesty," Feren said immediately, bowing to him. Before he turned to leave he hesitated. "But...Captain of the Guard, sire? What about Tauriel? She is with Legolas."

"Yes, I know," Thranduil said coldly. "But she has disobeyed my orders beyond repentance. She is banished from my kingdom."

Feren blinked in shock, looking about to protest.

"Feren, you must leave now!" he said again, his voice raising.

Feren nodded hastily and stepped out of the room, striding toward the stables. Thranduil turned to the messenger.

"Now," he said firmly, "tell me the whole story."


	6. The Battle

Once he had gathered a full report from the messenger, Thranduil himself began to muster the army. He oversaw the arming of the Guard, and their short training sessions in marching and unity.

Just before dusk, Feren returned. Legolas was not with him.

"King Thranduil," the elf warrior said reluctantly, "Legolas said to tell you he would not return without Tauriel."

Thranduil tightened his grip on his sword. Why could his son not just listen? He sighed. He could not unbanish Tauriel. She had defied him one too many times, for all her heart was in the right place. But Legolas...he could never turn his son away.

"Where are they?" he asked. "By Esgaroth still?"

"No," Feren replied. "They went north, as spies, to...to Gundabad, where the orcs are massing."

Thranduil froze as the name of Gundabad was spoken. "Does he know?" he asked quietly.

Feren knew what he was talking about. "Yes," he admitted. "I told him, a long time ago...he deserved to know."

Thranduil nodded. He feared for his son. For all Legolas and Tauriel were excellent fighters, an army of orcs was no laughing matter. If he lost Legolas, where he had also lost Calien so long ago...he did not know if he could bear his one light of joy being snuffed out.

He cleared his mind as he noticed Feren staring at him.

"My lord?" the elf captain asked in concern.

"They will be fine," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "We must march out now. Where is my elk?"

They marched swiftly, with Thranduil at the head of his army. He thought they could reach Erebor and the ruins of Dale by dawn in two days.

He did not intend to actually attack the dwarves, if indeed they had survived, but to strongarm them. If he showed them the size of his army, he could scare them into handing over his ransom. He knew it might not be that simple, however, if the dragonsickness had befallen Thorin as it had Thrór.

They reached Dale at dawn on the second day. Thranduil found the people of Lake-town there, starving and helpless, and he took pity on them, giving them some of his own supplies. To his surprise, he found their leader, Bard, willing to make an alliance with him. Though he could not say much about his people as warriors, the man himself was strong and just, and a dragonslayer as well, and thus Thranduil accepted his offer.

Bard insisted on a parlay with Thorin before an outright declaration of war, and as Thranduil expected and dreaded, Thorin had fallen into dragonsickness. He would not relinquish gold for the people of Lake-town, nor Calien's jewels.

The night before the attack, the wizard Mithrandir arrived, attempting to save his dwarvish friends, bearing a tale of orcs coming to attack. Soon after that, the strange halfling of Oakenshield's company appeared with an unexpected gift: the Arkenstone, a ransom for the king's treasure.

Thranduil hoped Thorin would take the offer, the Heart of the Mountain in exchange for gold and jewels, but in his heart, he knew Thorin had grown so mad that it would come to bloodshed.

His prediction proved to true. Thorin declared war, with the unexpected support of his cousin Dáin Ironfoot of the Iron Hills. Only, Mithrandir proved to be right as well: before elves and dwarves clashed, orcs appeared on the horizon, led by Azog the Defiler, come to end the line of Durin at last.

Now everything changed. Suddenly the dwarves were their allies, and five armies fought under the winter sun. Thranduil leapt into the fray himself, fighting until his loyal elk was slain. In a brief moment of calm, he looked around him and saw only death.

The bodies of his people were strewn around him, their blood staining the ground. He felt guilt well up inside him. This was his fault. He had led his people into danger, and all for a handful of jewels. Calien would not have wanted this, even for her own sake.

Thranduil made up his mind in that instant. He heard Feren approach him from behind, waiting for orders.

"Recall your company," he ordered, his voice hoarse.

Mithrandir made his way to him, protesting. "My lord, disperse this force to Ravenhill! The dwarves are about to be overrun, Thorin must be warned—"

Thranduil did not care anymore, regardless of whether Thorin had beaten the goldsickness and now fought with his people. "By all means, warn him," he snapped. "I've spent enough elvish blood in defense of this accursed land. No more!"

He stalked off, heading out of Dale. Silvan elves, his warriors, began to fall in behind him. He was almost to the city gates when out of nowhere, Tauriel appeared.

"You will go no further," she declared.

Thranduil drew back slightly, shocked at her outright defiance. Then again, he was no longer her king after her banishment. She had no more reason to obey him.

"You will not turn away," she said, her voice full of youth and passion. "Not this time."

He did not want to harm her. "Get out of my way," he ordered. He had to give her a chance, though he knew she would not heed his words.

"The dwarves will be slaughtered," Tauriel protested.

"Yes, they will die," Thranduil said harshly. "Today, tomorrow, one year hence, a hundred years from now. What does it matter? They are mortal." He knew she was concerned about one dwarf in particular, the dark-haired archer. He had to drive this into her mind, before she made any more rash decisions.

But this did not make Tauriel falter. Instead, a fire sprang into her green eyes, and she her bow, pointing an arrow at his face. The elves behind him shuffled and gasped, shocked she would draw a weapon on the Elvenking.

"You think your life is worth more than theirs, while there is no love in it?" she spat angrily. Thranduil felt outrage stir within him, and it only increased as she continued, "There is no love in  _you_."

His anger was ignited in a flash of rage, furious she would tare tell him such a lie. Could she not see, could  _anyone_  see, that he was so full of love to the bursting? He loved Legolas, he loved Tauriel, he loved the forest and his people, he loved Calien his fallen queen. It was love that had put him into this situation, love that drew him out. But all Tauriel could see was her passion for that dwarf, an unhealthy lust that would fade in time, leaving her empty.

And so it was in love that he drew his sword like a flash of lightning and cut her bow in two. She stepped back, her mouth falling open in shock. She dropped the broken pieces of wood. Now it was he who pointed a weapon at her, his sword still stained with orcish blood.

"What do you know of love?" Thranduil growled. "Nothing! What you feel for that dwarf is  _not real_. You think it is love? Are you ready to die for it?"

Looking back, he admitted to himself he got carried away, especially as he saw the set in her eyes. She was, he realized in shock. So young, barely six hundred, still full of unrealistic ideals, but ready to be a martyr for what she believed in.

Thranduil did not know what he would have done had he not been stopped, but out of nowhere, Legolas appeared, his sword pushing back Thranduil's own.

"If you harm her, you will have to kill me," his son said, staring into his father's eyes. Thranduil fell back, grief overcoming him. Even his own son, the last light in this dark place, could not see the love that burdened his very soul.

"I will go with you," Legolas said to Tauriel. Thranduil watched them both leave, heading north to Ravenhill, feeling defeated and alone. He wanted to call out to his son, telling him to be careful, to come back to him, but he had not said such things in an anxious voice since Legolas was a child. He might have just lost his son, without even a word of farewell.

But he still had to lead his people. He took a deep breath, then turned to Feren, who had watched this exchange in shocked amazement.

"We press on," he said, "until we have left this battlefield."


	7. Ever Brighter

He led his people away, through the ruin and the fighting. The main battle was up on Ravenhill now, and he could see off in the distance the fighters up there.

When the Silvan elves were safely out of harm's way, he ordered Feren to take a census of who had survived, heal the wounded, and prepare for the march home.

"Where are you going, my lord?" Feren called out as Thranduil turned to leave.

"To Ravenhill," he answered. "I must find my son."

By the time he reached the hill, the fight was over. He saw the halfling weeping over Oakenshield's body, and the broken remains of Azog the Defiler. He looked on the ground, his heart in his throat, for the body of Legolas among the fallen orcs. There had been a massacre here. In his heart he knew the line of Durin had perished this day, and perhaps Legolas along with it, for all of his fighting prowess. There was only darkness around Thranduil now, darkness and no light.

He heard the faint sound of soft weeping. Tauriel. So she, at least, had survived. He walked toward the noise.

Before he reached the sunlit outcropping where she lay, he heard footsteps. He looked up, and relief washed over him as he realized it was Legolas, walking unscathed.

He stared at his son, unable to say anything.

"I...cannot go back," Legolas said quietly. Thranduil felt a brief, searing pain in his heart as he took those words in, but he knew they were true. Legolas had seen much in these past few days, much that needed answers Thranduil could not give. He needed to see the world for himself, and come to his own conclusions. Thranduil knew that.

"Where will you go?" he asked softly, not protesting. He would not begrudge his son this need, for all he would miss his little leaf with all his heart.

"I do not know," Legolas admitted.

Thranduil could help his son there, at least. Around twenty years ago, he had gone north, visiting the Dúnedain on a political errand, and he had met with their leader and his young son. "Go north," he suggested. "Find the Dúnedain. There is a young ranger amongst them. You should meet him." He had been only a child then, but Estel had shown the hope found in his name in his gleaming eyes. "His father, Arathorn, was a good man. His son might grow to be a great one."

"What is his name?" Legolas asked.

"He is known in the wild as Strider." This he had learned by messenger from Elrond in the west, after the young man, Aragorn, had left Imladris to seek his fortune. "His true name...you must discover for yourself." Thranduil knew it, but he had to set Legolas some task, no matter how small.

Legolas nodded and began to walk off. Thranduil could not let it lie there. He had to say goodbye somehow. He had show the love inside him, the love no one else seemed to see.

"Legolas," he called softly. His son turned, looking at him with blue, blue eyes, the color not darker like his own, but brighter and softer like his mother.

His mother. Thranduil never spoke of Calien. He had not said her name in two thousand years. But he spoke of her now.

"Your mother loved you, Legolas," he murmured, pushing back tears welling up in his eyes. "More than anything. More than life."

He extended his hand in an elvish gesture of love and greeting and farewell. Legolas waved to him as well, but his motions fell apart in his emotion. Thranduil half-hoped he would come back, that they would cry together and return to the forest, but he did not. He turned and left, leaving his father all alone in the dark.

Tauriel's soft weeping could still be heard. Pushing back his tears, he walked out to face her. He desired no longer to push her away for her disobedience, but to bring her back to the forest, where she belonged. Where they could both find peace.

"They want to bury him," she said as he walked closer to her.

"Yes," he said quietly, taking in the scenario. She was bent over the bloodstained body of the dwarf, pain as deep as his when he had lost Calien showing in her eyes.

"If this is love, I do not want it," she cried out in anguish. "Take it from me, please!"

Thranduil only stared. He did not have that power, nor would he use it if he did. Love was harsh, it was painful, but it could be warm, and soft, and the most wonderful thing in all of Arda. Love was what made all the peoples of Middle-earth  _people_ , it distinguished them from malice that spawned from Morgoth and Sauron and their servants.

"Why does it hurt so much?" Tauriel sobbed, clutching the dwarf's hand, her voice cracking.

And then Thranduil saw light again. His mind flashed back to Calien's death, when he had sobbed upon the broken ground. He had not had even a cold, lifeless body to clutch. He felt that deep sadness, a stain upon his soul, and he could sense it now in Tauriel.

She had been wrong about him—but he had been wrong about her, too. She had not loved Legolas, as he had assumed; or at least, she had not loved him romantically. Her love for the dwarf was just as real and strong as his was for Calien.

"Because it was real," he answered her, his voice as soft as a whisper.

She looked up at him, relief and acceptance flooding her eyes with unshed tears, and he forgave her all. She had only acted in love, just as he had.

Tauriel leaned down and kissed the dwarf on his lips, and Thranduil stepped away, not wanting to intrude on this intensely private moment.

Thranduil sent Feren and the majority of his people back to the forest as soon as the wounded had been healed and the dead buried. He and a small escort stayed behind for the funeral of Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews Fíli and Kíli, the latter being Tauriel's dwarf love.

The halfling came to him the day before the funeral. Thranduil was surprised to see him, but welcomed him. He had no grudge against such a fine hobbit as Bilbo Baggins.

"Your Majesty," the halfling said, nodding to him. "I'm leaving soon, and...well, I thought, seeing as I don't have any use for it, you might like your necklace back. I'm sorry the dwarves had to keep it so long."

He pulled a long chain draped in glittering gems full of starlight, and Thranduil's breath caught in his throat. It was Calien's necklace. He broke into a smile, tears budding in his eyes. He reached out a hand and took it from the generous hobbit, who looked up at him with a wavering smile.

"I cannot thank you enough, Master Baggins," he told Bilbo with heartfelt gratitude. "This necklace...the jewels were my wife's."

"She'll be glad to have it back, then!" he said cheerily.

Thranduil glanced down in sorrow. "I will be glad to have a memory of her."

He covered his mouth in horror, realizing what he had said. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry—"

"There is nothing to apologize for. You spoke only from your heart," Thranduil said, brushing it aside. He draped the necklace over his own neck. "I thank you again, and I name you an elf-friend, if you have not been named so already. If you are ever passing the Greenwood, you are welcome to visit my halls."

Bilbo smiled at him and ducked his head, then walked away. Thranduil drew the necklace out in front of him and smiled at the jewels. "I remember the starlight," he whispered. "I remember the moon, that night...I remember. This will be my light now that Legolas is gone. Though he will return, and it will grow ever brighter."

Ever brighter. Thranduil blinked back tears, holding to the memories of his wife. He would see her again, he knew, when his time came to sail to Valinor, and she would be re-embodied. But until then this was his light.

And now in the halls of Erebor he spoke her name, the name he had not dared utter for two thousand years:

"Calien."

Ever brighter.


End file.
